Moon of All Shining Desire
 
Moon of all shining desire 
Rapture laden sweetness of orgy and fire 
Suspended in brightness tipped Earthward, 
A path through the night 
Unraveling the stillness 
Achingly holding the light. 
Radiant your pathway – 
Enchanted and new 
Tangled with stardust and spangled with dew 
Reflecting the light of the cosmos 
In the shimmering stars on your gown. 
Moonlit hours are fleeting... 
And in dreams your light I recall 
Delicate and wispy like a dress 
Worn to a debutante's ball. 
Drape this silhouette once more 
In your soft silver light 
With Earth's music playing waltzes 
Some magical night 
Dance my moon-tipsy shadow, lightly 
Around the deserted ballroom floor 
Then out through the open 
French door 
Whirl me in breathless ecstasy 
Onto the terrace of night. 


GOING HOME
 
Going home is an echoing tune 
Whistled down the sunbeams 
In the corridors of the wind. 
Going home is climbing the cherry tree 
Of the mind 
With the golden legs of yesterday. 
It's roaming mentally 
Through the windless places 
Where tragedy was bubble gum hair 
Or a B-B through a window. 
Now I stare at my reflection 
In that long-ago wounded window – 
Did I see the young girl shadow pass 
Over the woman in the glass; 
Did she reach out and touch my face; 
Or was that the wind upon my cheek? 


I HAVE WALKED THE MORN IN MISTS

I have walked the morn in mists
And trodden down the valley lily white
And run the gantlet sunshine fair
Robed in silken webs no woman ever wove,
Shod in sandals light - 
Airy, as death is weightless
And left youth and gaiety high and dry
At the entrance gate of responsibility
And entered therein
To lie face down, child of marble, wayward
On the dew-drenched lawn of forever,
Crying tears of stone 
To the unveiling of a statue, ageless.
I have reached reverently out to touch 
The alabaster agony of space without time
To carve the precious light of existence, sweet 
With flawless line, chisel
The wrinkles of age and time away
Layer by layer to the stone's heart,
Newborn, in beauty glowing, translucent 
With hands of steel, a sculptress
Kneeling to whisper, "It is good." 


Annie Johnson is 84 years old. She is Shawnee Native American. She has published two, six hundred-page novels and six books of poetry. Annie has won several poetry awards from world poetry organizations including; World Union of Poets; she is a member of World Nations Writers Union; has received the World Institute for Peace award; the World Laureate of Literature from World Nations Writers Union and The William Shakespeare Poetry Award. She received a Certificate and Medal in recognition of the highest literature from International Literary Union for the year 2020, from Ayad Al Baldawi, President of the International Literary Union. She has three children, two grandchildren, and two sons-in-law. Annie played a flute in the Butler University Symphony. She still plays her flute.